


Salvation (i forgot you, come back to me)

by MemoirsOfTheMoon



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Healing, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Self-Harm, Therapy, conversion therapy, just gotta hurt first, reparative therapy, self-harm scars, the author does not condone any of these behaviors, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoirsOfTheMoon/pseuds/MemoirsOfTheMoon
Summary: There's a girl who keeps scratching at the threads of Adora's perfect life. She doesn't know her, doesn't know what drives this girl to insert herself into her safe spaces with that horrifyingly pained (betrayed) expression.Catra says they met at reparative therapy, that they were girlfriends once upon a time.That's impossible because Adora has never been to reparative therapy. There's nothing to fix. She's completely straight. She couldn't possibly be compromised in such a manner.Light Hope promised her.(warning: this story speaks in depth about reparative therapy and therefore contains elements of homophobia. the author's view do not coincide with this stance, this is a work of fiction, nothing more)
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 80





	1. Adora

**Author's Note:**

> Okay...so i was avoiding watching She-Ra for the longest time bc i am an adult and i'm not supposed to watch hot women with big long swords flail around in rainbow colors...
> 
> whoops...
> 
> She-Ra makes me really happy so I don't know why my first fic is...this. Please take your mental state into consideration and do not read if homophobia or reparative therapy is a trigger for you. I do not condone any of that behavior and this is merely away for me to get project and work out a few things.

_tap tap tap_

Adora taps the upper left side of the door three times before unlocking the double set of glass doors for She-Ra Athletics. A chill wind blows, ruffling the fluffy neck of her red overcoat and she hurries in, stifling a yawn at the five AM darkness. 

Mara had said she didn’t need to come in and open on a Saturday but Adora doesn’t sleep anyway and besides, she likes having a small task to accomplish. The industrial lights bloom overhead with a flick of Adora’s fingers, flooding the building and chasing out the sleepy morning gray. 

The crackling lights illuminate a sparring area roped off and separate, a practice area with punching bags. Her feet know every crack in the cement and each fissure in the old mats when she fights. The lights are staticky, the walls are covered in cheap, flaking paint. The gym industrial, functional, and a little rough, but Adora loves the gym almost more than the home Mara has opened up to her. 

Another meandering yawn tugs on her jaw and Adora succumbs to it, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. She manages to shake off the fatigue and grab the checklist from behind the welcome counter as she makes her way to the office. Perfuma will be in soon and Adora intends to have the place checked and warmed up before she arrives to teach the six AM class morning mindfulness class. 

Perfuma, bless her willowy bendy self, has taken to making every single pen in She-Ra Athletics green taped and topped with a repurposed flower. Adora tapers down a snort as she takes one and shrugs out of her overcoat to hang up on the hook. The plastic petals swipe across her ridged knuckles, a quiet exhale. 

Adora taps the upper left corner of the doorframe and exits into the domain of She-Ra. 

**_0_**

“Adora!” 

She turns, smiling brightly as Bow’s poofy hair bobs into view around the swinging of her punching bag. Her own hair is fraying out of its pinned back bangs and tight ponytail, wisps of it plastered to her sloping forehead. 

“Hi, Bow,” she greets him eagerly, ignoring the sore throbbing of her wrapped knuckles. Everything in her body is loose and disjointed and she cracks her back, enjoying the feeling as her constricted lungs remember how to breathe normally. 

“Urghh,” Bow grimaces at the loud crack, “You trying to break yourself in half?” 

She sticks her tongue out in answer and they both laugh, Bow coming closer and giving her a quick side hug, avoiding the splotch of sweat on her back. 

“Where’s Glimmer?” She asks, looking around for sparkling wit and freshly dyed pastel hair. Glimmer and Bow orbit each other, gravitational suns that spur each other on. 

“Getting some sparring tips from Huntara,” Bow wrinkles his nose, like he isn’t quite sold on the idea of short statured Glimmer learning to hit _harder_ , “she’ll be here in a moment. Do you mind helping me set up the archery area?” 

“Yeah, yeah of course!” Adora mops at her forehead and leaves the practice area to follow Bow outdoors, letting her left hand drift up and tap the doorframe three times. After months of wheedling Mara finally okayed an archery area for Bow to practice and teach in the backyard of the gym. Bow took great pride in both designing the layout and helping build it.

“What’s your first class today?” Adora asks as she helps set up targets, “Anime nerds or renaissance aficionados?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Bow responds with a roll of his eyes, setting out a few quivers, “Neither actually. I just wanted to practice some new techniques. I think I finally figured out how to shoot three arrows at once and have them hit – _Aaugh_!”

“Good morning!” Glimmer sings, snatching a practice bow from her best friend and miming shooting it, “Whatcha up to?”

“Glimmer, don’t do that!” Bow dramatically places a hand over his heart and sinks down on a chair, “ _How_ do you do that? It’s like _poof_!”

“Maybe she teleports,” Adora snickers, walking closer so she can give Glimmer a hug. She smells good today, sugary like fresh baked cake, “Good morning Glimmer. How was speaking with Huntara?”

“Great!” Glimmer throws the practice bow into the air, making actual Bow scramble to catch it before it can hit the ground, “I think I might start coming to Saturday practices! You wait, in no time I’ll be all, _bam_! _Whacha_! And _boom_!” Glimmer mimes a few kicks and punches, narrowly avoiding Adora’s face, “Will you be there Saturday?”

“Mm,” Adora turns away to hide her frown, busying herself with sorting arrows, “Don’t think so. That’s when I volunteer at the ranch. Sorry.”

“Ohhhh right,” Glimmer perches on the chair Bow previously occupied, “How is that going? Did your therapist have any other suggestions?”

“It’s going good, I think,” Adora says cautiously, “but I’m not sure what the horses are supposed to do for me. Don’t get me wrong,” she corrects quickly, “I mean, I love being around Swift Wind as rambunctious as he is, but I’m not sure what memory it’s supposed to trigger for me.”

Glimmer and Bow are both quiet at that, making Adora’s shoulders clench as she feels the weight of their pity take weight around her neck. She doesn’t like this part of their friendship at all, when they don’t understand and can’t comprehend and therefore resort to pitying glances.

She’s being unfair, she knows, as she slams down some arrows harder than intended. She doesn’t even know what there is to pity to be fair. Her life with Mara and the gym is wonderful. So what if ages twelve to fifteen are one big black hole? That just means there was probably nothing meaningful enough to remember.

Out of everyone though, it is most horrifying when Mara gives her that look. Mara doesn’t need to give her that look. Mara was the one that took her in as a state ward at 15 and gave her a life and a purpose. Mara remembers how it was living under the roof of Light Hope. If Mara looks at her like one might look at a bedraggled dog on the road, then –

“Adora!”

She blinks up, seeing Mara’s strong shoulders filling out the doorway back to the entrance of the gym.

“Can you come here for a moment?”

“No problem!” she calls back, standing up and brushing off her knees. She glances back at Bow and Glimmer but they wave her off with a smile.

“Coming!” she yells and runs after Mara, only pausing to tap the entrance bar thrice.

**_0_**

“I have someone new starting!” Mara smiles at her, all warmth and cinnamon, “She’ll be here for the 2:30 class. Would you mind showing her the ropes?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Adora agrees easily, stacking up a few more boxing gloves, “What’s her name?” 

“Oh shoot,” Mara’s brow crinkles and Adora has to smile. Mara has never been the best at names, “Well in Group she said her name was ‘Applesauce’ but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.” 

Adora can’t contain a snort and drops a boxing glove as she doubles over, “Applesauce?!” She half shrieks, making a few patrons glance over in concern. 

“You know no one is required to share their real name in Group!” Mara admonishes but even she cannot contain a wry twist of her mouth, “They had mini squeeze pouches of applesauces as snacks so…” 

Adora cackles, trying to contain her mirth long enough to clean up the mess of gloves on the floor, “Okay Mara,” she snort snickers, “should I just greet everyone with ‘Good afternoon! Are you Applesauce?’ anytime someone unknown walks through the door?” 

“Please don’t,” Mara groans, picking up Adora’s slack and shoving gloves into the proper compartments, “that is a _horrible_ way to make someone feel welcome.” 

“Make who feel welcome?” Bow pops into existence, Glimmer peering around his side, blinking her large dark eyes. 

“Apple-Applesauce!” Adora manages to get out before collapsing onto the mat, holding a stitch in her side, still howling. 

Glimmer blinks down, nonplussed, “Did you let Adora smoke, Mara?” she stage whispers. 

Mara just groans and walks away, shaking her head slowly back and forth, muttering about ‘ _being too old for this bullshit_ ’. With a final gasping wheeze Adora exhales and sits up, wiping away at the tears in the corner of her eyes. 

“Who are we welcoming?” Bow asks patiently. 

Adora swallows a new volley of giggles, “A-Applesauce,” she manages. 

“EH!” Glimmer imitates a buzzer, crossing her arms in a ‘X’ formation, “Try again.” 

“No, no really,” Adora stands up finally, “Mara says the girl’s name is Applesauce. I’m guessing it’s a moniker from the Group she counsels. Apparently, she’d like to come in and check out the gym.” 

Bow presses a fist against his mouth to control a snicker, but Glimmer has no such reservations, and she bursts into a fit of giggles. 

“Applesauce?!” She half shouts. 

“Applesauce,” Adora agrees, giving back into her laughter. 

“Applesauce,” Bow agrees with a grin. 

“You rang?” A smooth voice cuts in. 

All three of them scream and clutch each other. 

A girl stands before them, a smirk slanting her mouth into a dangerous knife’s edge. The features of her face are equally sharp angles, something to be coveted but not held onto for fear of bleeding. She’s dressed in ripped leggings and a cropped sleeve tee with black compression sleeves up both her arms. 

“Oh hello!” Bow is the first to react as their resident golden retriever, “I-I’m sorry, you must be uh…” 

“Applesauce,” the girl intones drolly, eyes flicking down to Bow’s outstretched hand with disdain before looking back up, “And you must be Crop top.” 

“Er…” Bow awkwardly raises his hand to scratch at his hairline, “Uh it’s Bow actually – “ 

“It’s BOW!” yells Glimmer, startling half the gym and causing Kyle to fall backwards, “You can’t just waltz in here and start – “ 

“Uh-huh, settle down there Oopma Loopa,” the girl’s (er…Applesauce’s?) grin grows dangerously protracted, exposing feral teeth. 

“OOMPA – “ Glimmer’s voice escalates three octaves and hits a frequency only dogs can comprehend, “IT’S GLIMMER!” 

“Glitter Sparkles, got it,” Applesauce cocks a hip and saunters past Glimmer’s sputtering scream, her eyes finally landing on a dumbstruck Adora, “and you must be…” 

Her eyes widen. Dimly, Adora is aware that her irises are two different colors, one an endless sky, the other an amber sun. 

“A-Adora?” Something bends and warps in the way the girl says her name, by a stranger she certain she has never heard. It’s threaded between the syllables of her name, something fragile and reverent perhaps, or terribly, terribly festering. 

“Oh,” Adora fumbles, “He-Hello…ehrm…” 

Those divided eyes slant on disappointment and dubious hurt. “What are you playing at, Adora, you know my name!” 

There she goes again, saying _Adora_ with such authoritative longing. 

Adora doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know this girl with her taunt fists and shaking shoulders. There’s something dangerous wobbles between them, a pressure twisting in the room. 

“S-Sorry,” it’s stammered out, apologetic and tripping, “I don’t…I don’t know your name. This is…this is your first time at-at the gym right? You uh…uh talked to Mara?” 

The sharp jaw snaps shut and the crystalline eyes fall into shuttered regret. 

“You don’t remember.” It’s said dully, a slit open corpse with nothing wholesome left in its sternum. 

“No-no,” she swallows, her spit harsh and corrosive, it sits in the pit of her stomach and prickles the edges of her consciousness, “Should I know you?” 

The girl dips her head, wayward bangs obscuring the view of disappointment. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter then.” 

The girl turns heel and leaves Adora standing there, watching her retreat in loping, graceful steps. 


	2. Catra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra struggles to find her breath and reconcile her new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: mentions of self harm and self harm scars

Everything Catra has, she has earned. 

With claws and teeth, with spit and blood. She has scratched out a living with the meager scraps she was given. No one has ever offered her any quarter, any respite, any _fucking_ human decency. 

Except for one person. 

Adora. 

And Adora left her in that _place_. 

**...///...**

Catra manages to leave the gym without breaking anything or screaming. _Breathe deeply_ , her therapist’s voice rings in her ears, _one, two, three, one two three, onetwothree_

“ _One_ ,” Catra chokes out between salty tears and the feel of her nails digging into her biceps. They’re so long and sharp she feels them pierce through the compression sleeves and tunnel for flesh. The pain sparks clarity but not enough. 

_S…Sorry…I don’t…I don’t know your name…_

“ _Two_ ,” she shudders on her next inhale struggling not to choke. 

Adora. Standing there, still in a ponytail, shoulders rolled back in a powerful stance. Blonde as ever but with aristocratic features and storm weathered eyes. 

_N…no. Should I know you?_

“ _Three_ ,” she nearly gurgles it, finally reaching her ramshackle car. Blearily she manages to unlock it and stumbles into front seat, slamming the door shut behind her. 

Adora with her guileless too open expression. The lack of recognition sliding off her face into polite confusion. 

_She’s acting this way_ _because you are useless, you are worthless, you are **nothing** …_

She sits there for a moment, talons stuck into her skin, drawing blood, blotted tears rolling down her face. Snotty like a five-year-old left on a cracked asphalt doorstep. She forgets the stupid breathing exercises and her high pitched gasps fill the car like desperate hands against the peeling roof.

Her phone rings, breaking through the dark fog she is sinking in. Unclenching her twitching hands, she fumbles for it. 

“Wildcat!” Scorpio’s earnest voice rings through the phone and Catra tries her best to ground herself at the familiar sound, “Oh hey there! How was the kickboxing class?” 

Catra wrestles with her vocal chords, trying to remember how to form words through the deep seated ache throbbing in her core. Her breathing stutters, stumbling to find a more human pace.

“H…Hello?” Scorpio’s voice becomes a little unsure, slightly more frantic, “Uh, Wildcat, you there? Are you okay? Do you need – “ 

“Come get me,” Catra spits, the hurt and panic splattered over her tone in fluorescent overture. 

“Uh, sure, Wildcat, I mean you drove but if you need me – “

“SCORPIA!” 

“Uh, right, sorry, headed your way.” 

**...///...**

Time spins, dust motes and broken children with too wide eyes. The sun sinks, pulling shadows like taffy and tinting everything melancholy. Catra’s nails have returned to the graves they’ve dug in the meat of her arm and she sits hunched over in the front seat trying to pace her inhales and exhales. At some point the gym doors open and three people tumble out. 

She catches Sparkles’ high voice first, it’s the easiest to pick out over the deeper ooze of Crop Top’s. Sparkles is skipping, not a care in a world, her glittery work out leggings stretching over soft thighs and tucked into frankly ridiculously large purple sneakers with crescent moons on them. 

“…don’t know why Mara cares so much Applesauce ran off,” Sparkles complains, loud enough it’s not muffled even in the car. Catra feels all the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention and lightning sparks down the nerves of her arms as her fingers flex. 

“It probably took her a while to convince the girl to come here,” Crop Top suggest diplomatically and Catra has to resist the urge to snort. Well, he wasn’t _wrong_. 

“Was it something I did?” Concern and uncertainty tug and drip from the blonde’s, from _Adora’s_ voice. With a mild roll of putrid nausea Catra realizes Adora’s voice has gotten deeper, a ting like crystal mines, a cadence like well water beneath the stalwart earth. 

“No way!” Sparkles interjects, swinging her duffel bag and whacking Adora on the side. She lets out a little ‘oof’ but otherwise remains unmoved. _Jesus fuckin’ Christ is she jacked or something??_ , “I mean, the group is the ‘Adoptees supporting Supporting Adoptees’ there’s like, no way you’d know her unless…hey Adora! Maybe you saw her in the hospital or something.” 

Adora stiffens and half turns away, “Not likely,” she mumbles, scrabbling at her frizzing ponytail. 

“Why not?” Sparkles demands, turning 180 degrees in the parking lot to face the blonde, “How would you know, I mean you were basically – “ 

Adora is sudden stone and her expression shutters closed. Crop Top notices and grabs Sparkles. They look at each other, words flying silently between them as Adora remains frozen in the parking lot, illuminated by drooping afternoon sun. 

“What are we eating?” A genuine, but pitying, smile steals across the dark face of Crop Top. He gently reaches over and slings an arm around Adora, “I think you said you really like that artisanal pizza food truck?” 

“Huh?” Adora blinks back into her surroundings. Maybe it’s the glint from the windshield but Catra thinks she’s trembling. “Uh yeah. Yeah sure. Food.” 

The rest of the conversation is drowned out by a truck screeching into the parking lot, nearly clipping Crop Top, who screams dramatically and gets caught by a bemused Adora. The truck rumbles past the three of them and pulls sharply into the empty spot next to Catra’s old wreck.

A moment of fumbling and Scorpia kicks open the driver door in a shower of rust, sprinkling the concrete like abandoned stars. Her hulking frame disentangles itself from the front seat clumsily and she nearly falls out. With a reluctant thread of fondness Catra watches as her roommate and very, _very_ begrudgingly accepted best friend, picks her way delicately out of the truck and opens the passenger door of Catra’s vehicle.

“Heeeeeeyyyyy there super pal of mine,” Scorpia enunciates as she slides her bulk into the cramped confines of Catra’s car. There is a blatant earnestness on her chiseled face, her expression so puppy dog sweet beneath wayward strands of dyed white hair shaved at the sides.

Catra grunts in response, the rigid joints of her locked fingers finally beginning to loosen.

“Did the class suck?” Scorpia asks, oh so innocently, putting one of her heavy hands cautiously on Catra’s shoulder. She gently works a thumb under the rigid clasp of Catra’s palm and tries to pry her nails out of her skin. The other four fingers of Scorpia’s hand twitch against Catra’s t-shirt but remain frozen due to nerve damage.

For a moment, Catra cannot answer. Scorpia’s presence fills the meager space of the car, alleviating some of the tightness of the atmosphere.

“Wildcat.” Scorpia’s voice unbearably gentle, the edges of a feather. It cuts deeply into the loam of Catra’s sinking and she strikes out without thinking, slapping Scorpia’s hand away.

There’s hurt on Scorpia’s face and it scours her. Guilt overlaces her bubbling depression, creating an ugly weave.

 _When you strike out without thinking it is important to recognize that you are only reacting to the situation your environment has taught._ This is something that’s been repeated for the last few years by her therapist, cutting through even her current episode. _But this does not make it right and you should asses the wrongdoing and offer an apology._

“S-Sorry. Or whatever.” She spits it, angry curses rather than an olive branch.

“It’s okay, Wildcat,” Scorpia intones, understanding comforting and soft, “thank you for apologizing. Now…what’s wrong?”

Catra works her jaw for a moment, the words are stones, are knives, are things that cut into the ridges of her throat and settle there. She swallows, trying her best to reach the words.

Scorpia squeezes her shoulder and some of the tension leeches out.

“How about later?” Scorpia suggests, “for now I’ll just give you a ride home.”

Heavily, Catra forces her heavy head to nod. She opens the door of her piece of shit car and follows Scorpia to her truck. Dimly, from very far away, she realizes that Adora and her stupid minion best friends have long exited the parking lot.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon and Catra closes her eyes.

**...///...**

Melog welcomes her immediately when Scorpia brings her home. She barely has time to kick off her shoes and toe off her socks before the dark cat twines around her ankles. He makes a valiant attempt to trip her until she picks them up and immediately begins to purr at a soothing, low decibel.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Scorpia suggests, locking the door behind them, “I’ll bring you some food.”

Catra should say “thank you.” She should be appreciative that Scorpia is such a wholesome and achingly kind person she accepts Catra’s wretchedness and works around it. Instead, all she can do is nod dumbly, clutch at her cat, and make her way into her room.

There’s nothing here really, just a mattress on the ground, a single sheet of grubby newspaper covering the window, and some random cups with month old liquid in them. Several lumps of clothing spill out of a dark closet. With a hitching sigh and the click of a door, Catra drops onto the mattress, curling her body around Melog. Their purr kicks up a notch and they nudge her chin a few times.

 _Foster_. She looked up the definition once at seven years old, in Dr. Weaver’s home. According to Miriam Webster it meant to ‘to promote the growth or development of; to further; to encourage’. Even at seven, Catra had burst out laughing before digging her stubby seven-year-old nails into the paper and tore, and ripped, and shredded, until there was nothing left other than a sobbing child and a flurry of descending paper shreds.

That’s how Dr. Weaver found her a few hours later.

She hadn’t eaten that night. Or the next. Or the next few ones either.

Foster should mean ‘Abandoned’. ‘Rejected’. “Unwanted”. “ _Useless_ ”.

Melog _rawrs_ and leaps out of her arms as Catra jerks her knees up to her chest and clenches at her ankles.

She’s panting, not realizing she screamed the last word. There’s a concerned knock on her door but Catra ignores it.

“Uhhh…Catra? I made…I made tea. Would you like some?”

Catra bites her lip. Her canine pierces through the thin skin and she tastes a sunburst of copper. Something hot runs down her face, two trails to pool on the mattress below.

“Catra? Catra. Are you okay?”

_Catra?_

She opens her eyes and in the gloom those cast aside piles of clothes almost look like the memory of a girl.

_Well, if you’re missing dinner then I am too. I don’t care what Father Prime says._

“You’re an idiot.” Her lips shape the words.

The gloom and memories shift themselves into a brilliant smile.

_How embarrassing for you to hang out with me then._

She closes her eyes as Scorpia pushes open her door. There’s a puddle of warmth where Melog has decided to curl into on her thigh and the soothing scent of steeped leaves.

**...///...**

When Catra wakes up, dusty slants of sun are reaching through the rips of newspaper in the window. Melog’s a silhouetted outline on the sill, cleaning a paw. Her head hurts from the low ponytail she’s trapped it in and she rips the rubber band out, tossing out her chaotic mane.

There’s a long cold cup of tea by her mattress and a fluffy blanket pulled up to her chin. She recognizes it from Scorpia’s room. Something like guilt chews on the edge of her stomach…or perhaps that’s the band of her sport leggings…or the hunger from skipping dinner.

Reluctantly, Catra sits up, throwing off the blanket and stretching stiff limbs, stripping off her compression sleeves, her t-shirt, and the dig of her sports bra. Her stomach gnaws relentlessly and Catra groans, rolling her head up to stare at her cracked ceiling.

Living is _such_ a pain.

Scorpia is gone, presumably at work, when Catra finally puts on comfortable clothes, shakes out her appendages, and exits her room. Melog nearly trips her as she opens her door but she manages to catch herself against the doorframe. Good, she’s glad the apartment is empty. She’s really not in the mood deal with other people at the moment.

 _Who’s turn was it to go grocery shopping, anyway?_ Catra laments to herself as she pokes through the empty cupboards, absently scratching at the lined scars on her arms with too long nails. Her arms twinge as she raises them to open the fridge, still grooved with her fingernails. The fridge light reveals one jar of pickles and an empty bottle of ketchup.

“God _damnit_ ,” Catra growls, slamming the fridge door shut fiercely. She hears the ketchup bottle topple over and clunk into the crispier drawer and resists the urge to kick the appliance. It’s got enough dents already from her tantrums.

Melog meows and Catra sighs deeply, reaching for the cat food. At least _someone_ was going to be able to eat.

“I thought Scorpia made dinner?” Catra whines to Melog as she doles out kibble bits, “She said she was making dinner.”

_Mrowr._

“She ate it all?” blowing a raspberry, Catra props herself onto the counter, despite the protest from her biceps, fighting a smile, “Isn’t that just fucking on brand?”

_Mewrrr._

“Shuddup, you stupid golem.”

Melog’s bright blue eyes look up over their food dispassionately before returning to their meal.

“God, I hate you.”

Silence drifts in the kitchen for a moment as Catra swings her legs, letting her heels clunk against cabinet doors. Her scars itch and she rubs them, absently.

“I don’t need to talk to my therapist,” she crosses her arms and stares across into the living room, at the couch Scorpia dragged into the apartment from some garage sale. It’s a wretched green and it leaks stuffing from all the places Melog has decided to use it as their personal scratching post.

_Mewhr._

“I don’t!” the exclamation is sharp with unpolished edges, “I don’t give a shit if – “

If Adora is back.

If Adora looks at her like a stranger.

How can she fucking _not_? After all they –

Something cold butts against her hand and Melog steps into her lap, one paw definitely denting her kidney. It works though, Catra snaps herself out of the dark swirl she was about to go down, blinking back into kitchen.

“Okay,” she whispers, petting Melog’s head as they head butt her chin. She lowers her forehead until she can press against them, “Okay, I’ll make an appointment.”

Melog purrs happily and curls up on her lap, breakfast abandoned.

**...///...**

Plumeria Counseling is on the other side of town and it takes Catra three bus rides to get her. She grumbles, tucking her chin onto her knees, pissed that she left her stupid car at that stupid gym with that stupid _betraying_ -

“Breathe,” Catra whispers to herself, her nails finding the still tender grooves from last night in her arm, “fuckin’, _breathe_ you stupid bitch.”

The bus pulls to a stop, lurching forward a bit before settling back on its tires. Catra swings her backpack into a more comfortable position and exits.

Opening the office door sends an almost overwhelming wave of flowery smells out to personally annoy her. The receptionist, some meathead with flopping blonde hair barely held in check by a green bandana adorned with pink flowers, waves at her.

“Dude, Catra, yo! Ya here to see Perfuma, yeah?”

“If you know that, why the fuck are you talking,” Catra snarls, feeling her hackles rise. Not for the first time she wonders _whyyyyyyy_ she chose to continue her therapy _here_.

Right, because they don’t charge former foster children and bill the government instead.

The ditz at the receptionist table just laughs, prodding at a vase of cut flowers, “You can go back there, the Doc is in.” he cackles at his own joke, nearly upsetting the vase.

Catra stomps past him and his stupid flower arrangement.

Perfuma's office door is open, exposing a circular room with no desks and no chairs, only a plush carpet, velvet poufs, and so many plants it looks like greenhouse.

Sighing very deeply, Catra slaps a hand across her face, drags it down, and enters.

In the middle of the room sits Perfuma with her legs crossed and her middle finger touching her thumbs. She opens bright eyes as Catra comes in, her face opening up in a golden smile that practically reflects off her freckled face and tanned shoulders.

“Catra, welcome in! I’m so happy you called!”

Catra bristles at her windchime tone and Perfuma takes her cue.

“Sorry, sorry, toning it down.” She takes a deep breath and exhales carefully, elegant fingers pressing together, “Why don’t you take a seat and talk to me?”

Carefully, every nerve poised to run, Catra eases in and sits as far away from Perfuma as possible. She grabs a nearby pillow and clenches it tightly to her chest.

“You sounded a little distraught on the phone when we spoke,” Perfuma prods gently, pushing a strand of wavy blonde hair behind her ear. Dimly, Catra wonders why the fuck she’s got a fucking gaggle of blondes always in her fucking space, “Would you like to discuss it?”

It takes a moment for Catra to collect her thoughts, her sharp nails strategically dismantling the golden tassel on the cushion. “I…I went to that. That stupid gym.”

“Oh that’s a wonderful first step,” Perfuma exudes positivity, her pores practically leaking with excitement, “It was your Group Counselor that suggested it right?”

“Yeah, that one,” Catra takes a deep breath, “She…she runs the gym and she gave me a voucher to pay a third the price for a year. I thought it’d be fine, right? Like I would get to hit things, not people this time around.” She breaks off, her nail catching on a wayward thread.

“And not yourself,” Perfuma adds gently, but it still makes Catra flinch.

She inhales sharply, feeling her nail bending in the cushion stuffing.

“Sure. Whatever,” Catra inhales deeply, still twisting her finger. The nail begins to tear at the base, a slow painful burn that colors the room molten.

“She was there. You know. Ad…Adora.”

“Ah…” there is gentle acceptance in Perfuma’s tone.

“Yeah, Adora.” The name rises in her throat, burgeoning in her head. Her nail tears and the pain sparks red beads of blood and tears sparkling at the edges of her eyes.

“Adora was there…and she pretended like she doesn’t even know who the fuck I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re getting there? Hehe, thanks for sticking around! 
> 
> Side note: Scorpia’s got bella swans truck lol


	3. Adora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora doesn't like clinics or IVs.

Adora is bent over her laptop at the dinner table when Mara walks into the house. “Hey there, peanut!” She greets, brandishing a take out bag from a local Indian restraint, “Samosa?”

Adora gasps dramatically, snapping her laptop shut over the fight she was watching, “Yes please!”

The crooked smile on Mara’s face almost glows brighter than the overhead light. She flips her long braid behind a shoulder and helps Adora clear the table of her laptop and assorted notes.

“Soooo…” she begins, taking a plate out of the cupboard and dishing out fragrant basamati rice, “Applesauce didn’t show up for my 2:30PM.”

“Didn’t we already go over this?” Adora sighs dramatically, stealing a samosa and cramming half of it into her mouth. She yelps as the filling burns her tongue and sucks in noisy breaths like a dragon trying to cool a fiery mouthful.

Mara quirks an eyebrow at her disapprovingly and snatches the other half of the samosa back, “We did but all you said was, ‘Uhm, Applesauce, Glitter Sparkles, and Crop Top! Sorry, gotta go!’ and promptly ditched the workout to let Glimmer cause chaos.”

With extreme difficulty Adora swallows her too big, moderately more cool mouthful of blessed fried wrapper and chickpea potato stuffing. “Sorry,” she mumbles, rubbing at her upper arms, “Glimmer just wanted to try on the boxing gear. She’s starting with Huntara on Saturday.”

Mara’s eyebrow nearly jumps off her forehead as she rearranges the bitten samosa on a plate, “Is that _advisable_?”

Adora shrugs and walks her fingers toward an unattended naan.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Mara nudges the plate closer to her creeping hand. “Well, I suppose I can’t stop her.”

“Glimmer’s gonna take over the world whether or not she learns how to box,” Adora agrees, just a hint of pride tinting her voice bold as she tears the naan in half. Sheepishly, she offers half to Mara.

That wry smile returns and Mara takes the peace offering and drops the subject.

The rest of dinner is a little bit too quiet, punctuated only with superficial questions about Mara’s classes and the group counseling she leads. Adora’s head is full, all her neurons flustered and alight with the mystery of ‘Applesauce’.

Who was this girl? Why would she speak to Adora so familiarly, like she already knew her? Motes of cinnamon were scattered so carelessly across her face and Adora wonders if she could find constellations of victory in those freckles.

Where did _that_ come from?

“Adora?”

She blinks back into the surroundings, aromatic food wafting up toward her. Mara’s brow is creased in worry.

“Adora, are you alright?”

She puts the fork into her mouth, biting into a fragrant piece of goat. The kitchen light overhead flickers the slightest bit.

“Just dandy,” she mumbles around it and ignore Mara’s obvious disbelief.

“C’mon, spill it, peanut,” Mara nudges her with the tine of her fork.

Adora stalls for a moment, trying to finish her mouthful of food. She swallows and looks down at her plate of half finished curry, dragging her utensil slowly through the creamy mess.

“Just…you know…Applesauce. She acted like…like I should know her name. She told me to stop…playing.” Adora feels a crease divide her forehead as pushes rice into the cleared line between her curry.

“That’s stupid, right Mara? ‘cuz I’ve never seen that girl before in my life. I would remember someone so pr – “ she snaps her mouth closed, the fork clattering out of her hand.

“So what?” Mara stares at her, wide eyed, “What were you going to say?”

Adora sucks in a breath and pushes her plate away, stomach suddenly churning. A slight tingle begins in her fingertips as she gathers her crumpled napkins.

“Nothing. I wasn’t going to say anything.” She stands abruptly from the table, her chair legs shrieking across the tile, “You done with that?”

“No,” Mara rises with her, something like pleading gathering at the edge of her expression, “Adora please, talk to me – “

“There’s nothing to say, I wasn’t going to say anything,” Adora bites out the words as she snatches up her plate and stomps over to the trashcan to dump her leftovers. The light of the kitchen wobbles for a moment, a bright flare on the edge of her vision.

“You didn’t want to save – “ Mara begins weakly but Adora is already running the water of the sink, the sound thundering over her words.

“I gotta go, I need to check something,” the words come easy but Adora doesn’t know if she’s saying them. The dishes clatter loudly in the sink as she shuts off the water. Mara’s still sitting there, just within reach, but to Adora she might as well be on another dimension.

“Adora, don’t run – !“

But she already is, up the stairs, down the hall, and in her room. Her chest is heaving, more than it does after an hour of the punching bag, her limbs thrum as though she’s overexerted the muscles. Adora stands with her back against the solid wood of the door, struggling to catch her breath.

“No, no, no, no nonono,” it’s a quiet whimper in the sedate darkness of her room.

“Please, _don’t_.”

_adoraaaaaa_

Flashbulbs go off, igniting the dark. Adora clutches at her head with her numbing fingers, praying this isn’t happening.

_don’t you worry, i’m going to fix you, i’m going make you perfect_

Knife points enter at the edge of her temples and Adora gasps aloud, wet and crumpled.

“Mara?” she tries out. It’s a weak little mewl in this vastness as the knives wedge under her skull and begin to splinter.

_once i am done with you, you are going to be so grateful_

“Mara!” she tries again a little louder, but the sound of her voice cracks the knives completely and the pieces begin to pound into her brain, mashing her brain and neurons into so much useless flesh.

Tears seep out of the corners of her eyes and Adora digs her nails into her scalp, her breath coming in ragged, torn gasps. She slides down the sleek wood and down to the floor, where she curls into a small ball and begins to cry in earnest, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Adora has seen pictures of what the atomic bomb can do and sometimes, she wonders if a mental one can be set off, the blast quarantined in her skull as waves of white hot fallout pulse through the curve of cranium. The pain spikes and pulls, turning everything molten and heated even as her body shakes itself to pieces, churning the dinner she just ate into a rising rush. Adora turns her head weakly, just in time to vomit into a corner before the door snaps open, sending bright light to cut into her own personal hell.

The illumination strikes up another tremor that makes Adora cry out as Mara gasps.

“No, no, no!” Mara whispers, sticking her hands under Adora’s armpits and gently hauling her upright. Everything tilts inside of Adora’s body, falling and breaking, all the torment concentrated in her head as she sobs, trying valiantly to recurl into a ball, “Why didn’t you tell me you were having an attack?”

Adora can only moan as Mara practically carries her to the bed and lays her down. She wants to say sorry. She wants to apologize for the mess, the inconvenience, for the act of existing in such a state. Instead she can only draw her knees up to her chin, snuffling quietly as her brain systematically tears itself to pieces.

Dully, she can tell Mara is fussing over her, with blankets and pillows and a hot water bottle. At some point Mara forces her jaw open and makes her swallow something. But Adora can’t keep track. There is nothing except this dark, nothing except this pain. It is endless and extreme and she never gets used to it. It could be minutes; it could have been an eternity. The world might have ended and Adora would’ve never known.

Slowly though, the waves begin to abate, not any less painful, but there are longer periods of time between each crest of agony. In increments she is aware of the fluffy blanket tossed around her shoulders, the downy pillow creasing into her cheek. She can smell the familiar scent of her room and the rancid aftermath of vomit.

At some point the rabid animal that is her brain stops dropping atomic bombs and frolicking in the radiation, long enough that Adora can drag herself out of the cocoon of blankets and stumble into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Everything looks too sharp and shiny so she doesn’t turn on any lights, fearing another attack. She strips off her musty clothes and puts on a clean t-shirt and comfy shorts before crawling back into bed.

Sleep comes for her, blessed and gently beckoning and Adora drifts off gladly, her mind still in ruined shambles all around her.

**…///…**

“How long?” Adora croaks out at breakfast the next day. She needs a shower; greasy bits of blonde hair have sunk out of her ponytail to fringe at the edge of her gaze. She just doesn’t have any energy to stand under water.

Mara slides an anxious look at her from the stove.

“About a day and three or four hours, give or take,” she answers cautiously, flipping an egg.

“Oh,” Adora takes a leaden hand and tries pushing the hair out of her face, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Mara asks as she shuts off the stove, “I’m fairly certain you didn’t want to have a migraine.”

“No,” Adora grimaces, “but uhm…I usually throw up. And my mouth told me I definitely threw up this time.”

“Ah,” Mara waves her spatula flippantly, “Don’t worry about it. It’s no worse than cleaning the bathrooms at the gym.”

Adora says nothing, privately resolving to wake up early for the next month to open the gym and get the everything cleaned before Mara’s alarm even thinks about going off.

A gentle clink returns her attention to the table as Mara sets out a plate piled high with pancakes, eggs, and sausage. Usually, the smell would make her go crazy, diving into the food like some deranged animal. Today, it just flips her stomach upside down and makes her swallow back a roil of acid.

Mara sits down across her and Adora finds herself unable to look in that direction. Her stomach acid stings her esophagus, or maybe it’s the shame of being dependent on her rescuer even now at twenty.

“Your phone’s been going crazy,” Mara says gently, “Bow and Glimmer have been begging me for updates.”

“Oh yeah?” the guilt shimmers hard, scorching the linings of her throat, “Sorry, I’ll talk to them today at the gym.”

Mara looks at her as though she’s grown a second head, “You’re not coming to the gym today.”

Adora stares back at her, “What? Why not?”

The incredulous disbelief on Mara’s face grows, “Because you barely made it down the stairs, and now you want to go train and teach classes? I don’t think so, peanut.”

Hot tears spark at Adora’s eyes and she has to look away. “Fine. Okay. So I won’t go.” the shame spirals up, clawing down her face.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mara rushes over, slinging an arm across her shoulders, “Don’t cry, peanut. You know it’s not that I don’t want you there, just that I think you should stay here and rest. I can’t wait till you’re back with us and I know Bow and Glimmer are so excited to see you again.”

“But this is all I ever seem to do!” Adora protests, swiping an arm across her tears, “Migraine, rest, rinse, repeat! I had to drop out of _community college_ because of this stupid brain of mine. The very least I can do is maybe train and do a tournament to help promote the gym but I can’t even do that for fear of them hitting my head! This isn’t fair, Mara. Tell me how to fight this!”

Mara stares back into her eyes, pain plain and bright on her face, tears gathering in the edge of her own eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, gathering Adora up in an encompassing hug, “I’m so, so sorry, Adora.”

Adora buries her face into Mara’s blue sweatshirt and struggles not to snot all over the soft cotton.

**…///…**

Her hands are shaking by the time she parks her car. Mara made her promise she would be okay coming by herself and Adora…

Adora lied.

She’s not okay. She doesn’t want to be here. She knows what awaits her beyond those doors. And it’s not scary in a rational sense, but someone forgot to slip the memo to her stupid, jilted brain, and her idiotic anxious body.

“It’s okay, Adora,” the lie is thin in her ears, “You got this. You can do this.”

Liar.

Eventually Adora regains control of her heart rate and her limbs. She unclips her seatbelt with mostly steady hands and steps out of the car with her backpack.

The large amethyst geodes that stand taller than Adora’s 6’1 are the outstanding features of Mystacor Rehabilitation. A wave of patchouli and sandalwood wafts out to greet her as she enters the sliding glass doors and into the welcome area, all done in sleek glass, crystal, and bright lights. The receptionist in bright pink scrubs smiles brightly and waves her through. Adora flicks a wrist weakly at them before heading directly into one of the dressing rooms.

Inside, Adora takes a deep breath and attempts to wrangle her breaths into a more appropriate rhythm. She can do this. Nothing bad is going to happen. She doesn’t even know why her stupid brain hates this process so much.

She shrugs off her overcoat and strips quickly, hanging up her coat, and shoving the rest of her clothes in a crumpled ball into her bag. She shakes out the awaiting hospital gown and pulls it on, fumbling with the ties a little bit. Finished, she kicks her backpack under the examination table and hops up onto the vinyl cushion.

The paper tears, obnoxiously loud, and Adora cringes, letting out a sigh.

“Every, single time.”

A few moments of swinging her legs and a knock taps against the door.

“Come in!”

The door clicks open and reveals a broad-shouldered man with streaked black hair and beard.

“Hey, there’s my favorite patient!” His voice is something like old trees and misted valleys. The edges of his eyes crease like parchment paper as he beams, “How are you today, Adora? Still letting Glimmer tear up your gym?”

“I don’t let her do anything!” Adora mock gasps, hand at her heart, “You try telling Glimmer what she can and can’t do!”

Dr. Micah throws his head back and laughs uproariously. Adora manages a weak grin as well, anxiety momentary spurned.

“That’s my baby girl,” he says affectionately, wiping a tear out of the corner of his eye. The movement bunches up his lavender scrub sleeve, revealing the jagged edges of old scars winding down his bicep, “You ready? Need a moment?”

“Nope, nope, I’m good,” Adora does her best to convince herself as she hops off the table, clutching at her gown. It wouldn’t do for her best friend’s dad to see her dressed in boxers with little hearts shot through with arrows (shhh, they’re a present from Bow, okay?).

Micah keeps the conversation light and floating, distracting her very well with questions about her work at the gym. Too soon they’re in front of the big leaden doors with the sign MRI and Micah opens them with a flourish before graciously allowing Adora to go through first.

Dr. Casta is already in the machine room, fussing over a few charts while a flustered looking nurse struggles to keep track of flying post its and wayward pens. She gasps as Adora sidles in, her heart starting to pick up speed again.

“Adora! How lovely to see you! Ugh that hospital gown is so not your color,” Dr. Casta wrinkles her nose and tosses back her long black hair, “Is that why you’re not wearing the sweater I gave you?”

Behind her, Micah sighs, but Adora manages a weak grin.

“Uhm…I think I’m required to wear the gown while in the MRI,” she tries for humor.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Casta waves her hand impatiently and then snaps her fingers impertinently, “Nurse! Get over here and place in Adora’s IV! And be gentle!”

The crushing feeling from before returns tenfold as the nurse approaches with gloved hands and sterile, tearaway packages. Adora feels her breathing struggle out at a wheeze as the nurse rips open something with a sharp crinkle and reveals a large needle.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Micah is suddenly in her face, hands grasping at her shoulders, “Look at me, Adora. It’s going to be alright. Just one sharp prick and it’ll all be over.”

“Uh-huh,” Adora stutters, trying to focus on his kind, haunted eyes. The edges of the room are starting to go fuzzy and her next breath comes out as a whine.

Micah leads her over to a chair, saying more soothing things but all Adora can think about is _gloves, needles, blood_ and how much she doesn’t want to be here, _please don’t make me stay, please let me go home –_

“Adora!” Micah’s is firm, his grip starting to bruise. Adora snaps back to attention, staring in face. “Breathe with me. One,” he inhales.

She tries to mimic him but it comes out more as a squeak. The feel of latex on her wrist makes her cry out and try and jerk away.

“Casta! Give her a minute!”

“I’m sorry, I just thought – “

“A minute!”

Their argument is swirling, draining away. Adora strains for her next breath, her heartbeat too loud in her ears.

“Adora,” her name anchors her for a moment. Adora. She can respond to that, she can define the parameters of that order. “Adora, breathe. Two. Count it with me.”

“T-two,” she tremors out, exhaling messily.

“Good job,” Micah’s voice overlaps pine and crushes cedar, it rolls over her gently recenters the panic into calm, “Three, Adora, can you try that?”

“Uhhuh,” she gulps, closing her eyes, inhaling deeply and exhaling, “Three.”

“Good,” Micah praises her, and that feels nice, “One more time. Inhale, one.”

“Two,” Adora continues for him.

“Three,” Micah soothes and there’s a small prick in the crease of her elbow but she barely flinches. She holds onto those breaths in the dark behind her eyes and resolutely does not look at her IV.

“We’re good,” Casta’s voice floats up, subdued but full of compassion.

“Great,” Micah withdraws and gently helps Adora to her feet, “Let’s go get you scanned okay?”

Adora nods. The needle is buried in her flesh and it tugs a little as she begins to walk, but she is not stupid enough to glance over.

**…///…**

The observation room seems almost too bright after nearly an hour of keeping her eyes closed inside the machine. She wonders sometimes, what her fractured mind looks like to Micah and Casta but she’s too afraid to ask.

Always a coward at heart.

“So, any more migraines?” Micah perches on the backless swivel chair, pen poised expectantly over his clipboard.

“Uhm,” Adora frowns for a moment, flipping through her journal and checking the entries. There are three circled dates in felt pen within the last month. “Yeah, three apparently and the last one was about three days ago after I left the gym.”

“Hm,” Micah scrawls something in his notes, “And again you can’t remember anything that happened before, during, or after the episode?”

Adora coughs, keeping the journal opened on her lap as her grip on the pages starts to become unsteady.

“No. I never remember anything. Just the…just the pain.”

Five years. Five years of talking with Micah and having him see her and listen to her at her lowest and it still makes Adora feel like she’s failed when she admits pain.

She’s supposed to communicate with her doctor, supposed to trust him. She knows she’s so lucky, Micah cares, he listens, he won’t ever dismiss her or hurt her. But she still feels nails on the back of her neck, a haggard voice like old shadows whispering _you fail_ when she admits pain.

Maybe she really is crazy.

“What triggered this episode?” Micah’s low voice ripples through the dark waters of doubt. She grasps the outline of his words and pulls back into her surroundings with effort.

“I’m not really sure,” Adora frowns, straining her broken brain, “I think…I think, Mara and I were talking about the gym.”

“Any particular incident?”

“Uh…” Adora flips to the entry Mara has written neatly for her on the latest date circled, “Ah, okay, we were talking about the new client she has. The notes say it’s from the group she counsels.”

“And you don’t remember this conversation at all?” Micah presses.

“No,” her ponytail swiping the sides of her cheeks as Adora shakes her head, “Just the migraine…and then it was afternoon the next day. I don’t even remember how I got home or what we had for dinner.”

Adora looks down at her shaking hands, at her knocking knees. She swallows hard, struggling to find the words.

“Micah…it’s been…it’s been _so_ long. What if I can’t…I can’t ever have a normal life? What if I can never go back to college? I can’t even participate in the MMA tournaments. What good is all the training, all this stupid effort if I’m never going to anything more than _this_?” Overcome, Adora hurtles her stupid journal with its _stupid_ notes, its _stupid recordings_ of her weakness and ineptitude. It smacks against the door and flutters to the ground, a bird with shattered wings.

Adora’s crying _again_ , big wet tears staining her face. Micah half rises, his pen clattering to the floor.

“All…all I ever do is drain Mara’s bank account…” at the thought of Mara, her gentle smile, her topaz eyes, Adora hiccups and wraps her arms around her stomach.

“Micah, what if…what if I’m going to be broken like this forever?”

Strong, calloused hands settle gently on her shoulders and Adora looks up through a veil of tears to reveal Micah’s kind, understanding face.

“When they pulled me out of that hellhole, I thought that too,” Micah kneels down in front of her, gripping her gently, “It was always dark in that war prison, no sun, no sky. Time could not be measured. I ate bugs just to live. And to know almost ten years had passed by before I got to return home?” Micah shakes his head, his eyes suddenly three thousand miles away on an island with no name.

“But here I am Adora. Practicing medicine again, a gift I never thought I would ever be able to wield. It’s not the future I once thought, I obviously can’t return to trauma surgery or field medicine, but I get to work with my sister. I get to see Glimmer every single day. I get to know she’s safe and she loves me. Even if…” his voice catches, snags on the cataclysmic edge of an old wound.

“Even if I was not here to treat Angela of her cancer, she is still with me. She is in Glimmer, in the shape of her eyes, the cut of her hair, her laugh. Angela is here in the way she raised Glimmer to be brave, fearless, and to always take a stand. And so I have a life beyond the hole.”

Micah rises, and Adora’s gaze follows him, climbs above the tar depression.

“You will too, Adora. I am certain you will have a life beyond what was done to you.”

Adora manages a watery smile.

“Thanks, Micah.”

“Anything,” Micah smiles back, gently for a moment before his expression cuts back into ecstatic, “Wanna see the new ant farm I started?”

“Er…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have most of the plot planned out but sometimes i need to shift some details around. here's a summary of what we know so far for Adora.
> 
> Mara and Adora aren't related. Mara adopted Adora at 15 as a state ward and she was in the hospital for 2 years. Adora doesn't remember anything that happened to her from like 11 to 16. she doesn't even really remember her adoption, just that it happened. 
> 
> Adora and Glimmer became friends through the clinic and through Glimmer she was introduced to Bow. She invited both of them to the gym She-Ra Athletics that Mara runs and they all got super addicted to working out together. 
> 
> Adora didn't start going to school until 17 because that's when she started actually making progress in her studies and remembering information. she got her GED and went to community college but had migraine attacks and missed a lot of school so she had to drop out. it's sad because she likes to learn but she just can't be consistent. if you have chronic migraines you know sometimes it can take like two days just to feel normal again. that doesn't even consider the fact that sometimes migraines can last for three days. 
> 
> Adora would like to fight in tournaments cuz duh, but Mara bans her because she says Adora doesn't need more head trauma. she's probably right

**Author's Note:**

> set up~ next ch we get some Catra and understand some of the circumstances!
> 
> also apparently catra's real name is Catra Applesauce Meowmeow? da fuk


End file.
